“Ah, siblings,” Quin remarked with amusement.
Morgan gave him a dirty look, then caved. “Yes, we will return to London. Which means—”
“We will remain here,” Quin answered.
Morgan’s eyebrows rose, and Joan let out a gasp.
Catherine’s chin tilted upward expectantly.
“I have one request before you leave for London.” Quin leaned forward. “Will you witness our wedding?”
Thirty-eight
Men make love more intensely at twenty, but make love better, however, at thirty.
—Catherine the Great
If someone had asked Catherine how she expected the day would proceed, she wouldn’t have said that it would end with a wedding planned for the next day.
They stayed up playing cards, enjoying the cozy atmosphere of Quin’s lodgings, with the promise of tomorrow sweetening the very air. When it was time to retire, Quin gave her the barest kiss, as if not trusting himself to do anything more.
“I love you.” He’d avowed the words against her waiting lips and then withdrew as she pursued another kiss. “Tomorrow,” he’d promised and then disappeared down the hall.
Sleep was elusive that night, her heart fluttering with every remembrance that tomorrow would be the day she took Quin’s name. Delight, anticipation, and desire ripped through her by turns, causing her to toss and turn in bed. When the moon was high in the night sky, she drifted to sleep.
As directed, her maid bid her wake early, and with only the pale light of dawn streaming through her window, Catherine rose to prepare for the day. Her wedding day. The maid brushed her hair thoroughly, her scalp tingling with each stroke. With a frown of concentration, the maid began to twist, braid, and pin Catherine’s hair.
The one evening dress Catherine brought had been hung up the night before, and once her hair was finished, she approached the gown, fingering the soft muslin.
As the maid buttoned up the back of the dress, the oval mirror of the guest room where she was sleeping was more than adequate to reveal the fruits of the morning labor on Catherine’s hair. Her thoughts drifted to Quin. No doubt he was dressing for the event, just as she was.
Joan and Morgan were either readying themselves or waiting down in the parlor. Yesterday Morgan had been sent out to procure a minister and a chapel. He had departed with a wide smirk, after uttering a quick word to Quin.
Catherine wasn’t sure what they were planning, but as long as it meant she was marrying Quin, she didn’t care.
It was almost a year ago that she’d met Avery—Quin’s older brother. Who would have guessed that the introduction would have led her here? She mourned Avery’s death, but it was more now. She mourned him not only as someone she’d loved, but as Quin’s brother as well, sharing Quin’s pain with him, not just carrying her own. And in that, her burden felt lighter. Grief lessened the more it was shared with others.
Studying her reflection in the mirror, she realized that while her appearance hadn’t altered much, her heart had gone through a transformation. She was older and wiser in heart, far beyond what one year could do in age, but she was grateful for it. Each step had led her to Quin.
And him to her.
The only damper on the morning was the intense wish for her grandmother to attend. A pinch in her heart made her eyes moist with unshed tears at the thought. But even in her improved condition, a wedding would be a stretch for her grandmother to attend. Catherine consoled herself knowing that even if the wedding were in London, her grandmother’s health couldn’t be hazarded by attending.
“My lady, you’re finished,” the maid said.
Catherine’s golden locks were twisted into a simple yet elegant braid that met in a cascade of curls on the top of her head. The effect was almost angelic. She studied her reflection further and noted the way her pink muslin dress flowed down her body in a feminine fashion, adding to the effect.
“Thank you.”
“An honor.” The maid dipped a curtsy and left.
Pleased, Catherine slowly turned toward her closed door. As she reached for the handle, a knock sounded, startling her.
She twisted the knob and opened the door, then gasped with joy. “Hello.” She spoke softly.
The moment was too reverent for a loud greeting. It was as if the very air muted all other sound as she met Quin’s warm expression. Wordlessly, he raised his hand and trailed a finger down her jawline, smoothing his thumb across her lower lip, his gaze drinking her in. She felt beautiful down to her toes, cherished and loved, and all of it without a word. And she wondered if he’d been loving her wordlessly for much longer than she’d realized.
Because love wasn’t simply the word. It was the action that gave the word life. It started in the heart and came out in the hands, the eyes, and was dearer because of the intensity that went beyond the word itself.